Cross Country (Part Fifteen)
Uncle Buster and Aunt Viola wanted us to stay a few more days, but our time was quickly passing like sands through the hourglass. Our cross-country adventure had taken us many extraordinary places – oceans, canyons, deserts, waterfalls, trees, mountains, caverns, prairies and rainforests, and we met many extraordinary people including relatives. But there were still a few places to go and we wanted more time to spend with our grandmother before heading south.
I didn’t grow up near my Montana Grandmother but every time we went to visit, we just picked up where we had left off. The best place in the house to sit was right beside her on the sofa. She wore a cotton dress with a narrow little belt, thick stockings, lace up shoes, and a sweater. An afghan or two was draped over the sofa to be used for her afternoon nap. She always had a story to tell about family or friends and neighbors. She would talk a while, then click her teeth together, blink her eyes, and smile.
Our cross-country trip would not be complete without going “up the canyon.” Our aunt did the driving. We all piled into her truck and headed to the mountains to the old homeplace. Sis and I rode in the back of the truck and held on as we hit bumps and rocks and forded creeks. As always, we were in awe of the mountains, streams, wildflowers, antelope and deer, and the fresh air. We pulled into the yard and hopped out of the truck. As my grandmother went into the log house, I could imagine her living there with kids under foot and cooking on the old wood cookstove for whoever showed up at her door. Living in the mountains were for people who were tough as nails. They had to be able to survive long winters and make do with what they had. I had great admiration for her. In fact, everyone I knew had the highest regard and respect for her. She was kind, hospitable, giving, loving, feisty, adventurous and forgiving. Plus, she was soft and squishy and cuddly, and had arms long enough to wrap around a kid or two..
The old cookstove was fed some kindling and a match lit to get the fire going, Sis and I hauled water from the horse trough where the best water in the world flowed out of the pipe that led from the spring. Soon the tea kettle was whistling, and a pan of water was heating for washing dishes. We had our lunch and hot tea at the long handmade wooden table where the family had eaten for years along with lumberjacks, sawmillers, neighbors and friends. After a day in the mountains, we headed back to town. I never tired of going to the mountains. There was always an adventure, even if it were only bumping up and down in the back of the truck or hopping out to open and shut the gates. I don’t recall any time when I didn’t leave the mountains without an ache in my chest.
My Daddy grew up in the mountains, but my Mother grew up on the prairies. She loved the wide-open spaces where you could see for miles. We couldn’t leave until we visited the house on Tin Can Hill where my grandparents lived for several years. We never knew how the road would be. Sourdough Road is definitely the road less traveled, riddled with deep ruts and stretches of gumbo when it rains.
There was nothing to obstruct the view while driving through the prairie. Prairie grass swayed in the breeze and eagles rode on the wind. After cresting a hill at the curve in the road, a house that looked like a miniature was seen in the distance. There was an old barn that was a work of art. An old willow grew behind the house, indicating that there may have been spring. On one side of the house was a row of Russian Olive trees my Grandfather planted as a wind break. The old house, not so regal, still stands, at least on the outside. It has been used for a shooting range, but the old walls of the house still manage to stand erect. Some of the wooden shingles seem to hang on for life while others are held precariously by one little nail. There’s just something special about that place. I can visualize my Granddad’s old truck sitting beside the house and my mom, aunt and uncle on their horses, clothes blowing sideways on the line.
The trip down memory lane was over. We drank one last milkshake at the old soda fountain in town. One more night and then we would head home. The night ended too quickly. With one final look at the mountains, our car turned the opposite direction and headed south.
ah how I remember that house and barn, I was 9 when we first visited, a couple months before my 10th birthday. We drove up the mountain on that rough road to visit the family that year also.
I wish I could have seen the place inhabited.